


The True Story

by seatbeltdrivein



Series: modern-verse [1]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-13
Updated: 2011-03-13
Packaged: 2017-10-16 22:51:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/170249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seatbeltdrivein/pseuds/seatbeltdrivein
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Amestris – October, 2010. While returning from a tour, the train carrying Lieutenant Colonel Roy Mustang and his men home breaks down in a little town called Resembool. He was expecting dirt roads and rednecks. What he got was a little different.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The True Story

**Author's Note:**

> There is a story behind this fic – this is the first FMA fic I ever wrote, and I never planned on posting it. It's very self-indulgent. The story behind this is that I thought, after seeing the first anime, "You know, all of this would have been so much more difficult to pull off with a bit of modern-day bureaucracy." And thus, this fic was born, essentially amounting to a rewrite of the entire series to fit that "what if?" And also for RoyEd, because, well, you know. And after I wrote *this* fic, I proceeded to write a whole slew of fics in this universe, all while thinking that I would never post them. Well, here I am, posting them.

Resembool was quiet to the point of boredom, the little town's daily routine so set in stone that any slight deviation would throw the entire system out of whack.

"We could have chosen a better place to stop," Roy said under his breath.

"There wasn't much of an option," Hawkeye returned.

"I suppose there wasn't." Roy itched to get away from the town. He couldn't even stand to look up because, hell, if he did, he'd probably step in cow shit. Did the townspeople have no pride? "Farms," Roy growled, narrowly avoiding yet another soft pile in the dirt road. The tinkering of weary laughter rose from the soldiers around them, but the moment was brief.

"Chief!"

Next to him, Hawkeye let out a relieved sigh.

"Sergeant Fuery," Roy acknowledged. "What do you have for me?"

"Not much," Fuery admitted. "None of our mobile communication works here. It's a total dead zone. The best we can do is use a local telephone, sir."

"We'll have to stay at a hotel—"

"I believe they call them 'inns' here, sir," Hawkeye corrected.

"We're trapped in the middle of nowhere in a town full of cow herding hicks," Roy groused. "I don't care what anything's called."

"Please don't insult the locals, sir."

"Of course, Lieutenant."

Fuery looked back and forth between them uneasily. "So, should I give the order, sir...?"

Roy nodded. "Tell the men to find a place to stay. We're on our own here until the train is up and running again."

It took about four hours to get all of the men put up in the town's inns. None of the squat buildings held more than five rooms, which resulted in the fifteen men under Roy's command being scattered throughout Resembool.

"What a mess, huh?" Havoc blew a mouthful of smoke, staring wistfully at the countryside just outside the window of his room. "Reminds me of home a bit, though."

"I should have know you'd fit in here," Roy muttered. "I hate the country. I was born in the city. You'd think I wouldn't get stuck in places like this."

"Ishbal was worse."

Roy went quiet for a moment, then swallowed. "Mm. It was."

"Least these guys down here aren't shooting at us," Havoc joked. "You'd think we were all heroes, the way they carry on. I have to say, I'm not used to entire towns rolling out the red carpet for us."

"We're not well liked, are we?" Roy sighed, running a hand through his hair. He was too damn hot, his jacket long since tossed to the side and his buttons jerked open. The back of his shirt was sticking to his skin, slick with sweat. It was disgusting.

"Can't imagine why."

They shared a knowing look, though the moment was ruined when Havoc started waggling his eyebrows.

"What'd you think of the clerk?"

"Which clerk?"

"Blond, 'bout yea high," Havoc waved his hand at shoulder height. "Curves and all. Chick at the counter."

Roy shrugged.

"What?" Havoc frowned. "What's wrong with her?"

"She looks like the last twenty girls I dated."

"I hate you," Havoc said fervently, scowling at Roy's smirk, " _so much._ "

The afternoon was wasted. Roy spent most of his time chatting up the girl at the front counter—he did so like blonds—while simultaneously laughing at Havoc, and the rest of his time hovering anxiously around Fuery while he attempted to get some sort of signal on his computer.

"I can't send an email unless there's a signal," Fuery explained. "As I told you already, Lieutenant Colonel."

"I don't know anything about computers." Roy scowled. "Make it work and I'll give you a bonus. I'll buy you dinner, hell, I don't care, just _make it work_ —"

"Deep breaths, sir," Hawkeye advised. "You're starting to hyperventilate."

Eventually, he was banished from the room, choosing instead to sulk in his own—private!—room. For the first time in years, Roy watched the sun set and didn't think about whether or not he would be lucky enough to wake up in the morning.

Resembool, he figured, wasn't _too_ bad.

*

Alchemy was a rare talent. As the story goes, alchemy used to be everywhere, in everyone, but as technology developed, it got a foothold over the archaic science, pushing it back into obscurity and into the minds of men who were savvy enough to understand.

Roy took great pride in being not only an alchemist, but one who was skilled enough, powerful enough, to qualify as a National Alchemist. While other soldiers fiddled with guns and explosives and electronics and, god forbid, _computers_ , Roy immersed himself in alchemy, detailing his every thought with the subtle science. There was nothing like the feel of a successful transmutation, the power and energy of it singing through the alchemist's blood.

But, as in every tale, there was another side to the story.

*

Roy woke in the middle of the night to the sound of deafening silence and knew without question that something was very, very wrong.

His feet hit the floor, hands already grabbing his gloves from the table, before his brain could catch up to motion. The air was unsettled, the atmosphere twisted, dark. Every hair on Roy's body stood straight, like a thousand jolts of electricity were running up his spine, curling into the center of his brain.

It felt like Ishbal.

Feet flying down the hall, he was out of the tiny inn before his mind really comprehended it, years of battle-ready experience pushing him towards something, to somewhere. A shrill cry sounded from the inn, one of his men, he knew, wondering what in the hell was wrong with their commanding officer ( _am I still in my nightclothes?_ ). But he was gone, bare feet pounding across the dirt road.

Roy followed the feeling, his dread a stone swallowed. An alchemical reaction, it had to be. The energy from it was so dark, terrifying, that it was affecting the entire town, the air somehow heavier. The light from the moon seemed to be shrinking away from Resembool, and Roy hoped to god that was just his own feverish imagination because—

His thoughts dropped, feet bringing him to an abrupt halt. It was a house, a small two story on the top of a hill. It looked older, a quaint cottage-type house that should have been a pleasant picture. All Roy could see was the dark air hanging over it.

 _This isn't your responsibility_ , he thought. _You can leave, you can turn around and pretend you never felt this._

He took a step towards the house.

 _You can go back to the inn, and no one will ever have to know you were here._

Another step, another, until he was at the door, his hand pushing the smooth wood. The door gave easily, hadn't even been truly closed, and Roy stepped inside. It looked normal enough, a kitchen off to one side and a hallway off to another.

He swallowed, stepped into the hallway—

And immediately took a step back. There was a door at the end, just barely cracked open, enough that a faint scent of blood snaked out, curled around Roy.

Someone was crying.

Tugging the edges of his gloves, an old comfort, Roy forced himself into motion, step by step, toward the room at the end. The crying was clearer when he stood in front of the door. One hand on the wood, he refused to cringe at the feel of what was obviously a transmutation gone wrong, and pushed it open, stepping into a nightmare.

"What the—"

"Help my brother!"

The room was red, everywhere red, the large transmutation circle sprawling across the floor stained in blood, the walls, the—

Roy took a breath, couldn't blink.

"Please help him."

"What—"

He hadn't noticed, had been too distracted by the circle and the blood, but in the darker corner of the room stood a suit of armor, some relic of ancient times, cradling a child in its arms, blood spilling down the metal.

"Your brother?" Roy was frozen, his mind churning sluggishly. "What happened here?"

"We just wanted to bring her back," the armor said. "We didn't mean to do this! You have to help him!"

The boy in its arms groaned, shifted, a fresh stream of blood starting. Roy's knees finally unlocked, and he stepped closer, wary, feeling his resolve return when he got a good look at the child.

"His—his arm and leg—"

"It was a rebound," the armor said. "He won't last much longer, please, we have to get him to the Rockbells!"

There wasn't time to ask anything else, not with the kid's body so—

Roy looked away, grabbed the door and held it open. "Come on, I don’t know where this Rockbell place is. If you want him to live—"

"I can't go with you," the armor said, despair lacing his words. "If anyone sees me, they'll know something happened. No one can know. They'll kill my brother!"

Roy stared at the suit for a moment and then, as if on autopilot, held out his arms. "Give him to me," he urged. "Quick, he's bleeding too much—"

"The Rockbells live close," the armor said, gingerly placing the boy in Roy's arms. "Go back down the hill, and then go about half a mile east. Rockbell Automail," it said. "Go."

"I'll come back," Roy promised, already running down the hall, back out the door, cradling the boy in his arms as well as he could. The stink of blood was everywhere, would stick to him for weeks. It was Ishbal again. The entire town felt like it—holding the boy was holding an injured soldier, and Roy knew, had always known, that he would never escape it.

The armor had been right. The Rockbell place was close. When Roy got there, leapt up the steps three at a time, the boy was still twitching weakly in his arms, his breath still puffing raggedly against Roy's shoulder. He couldn't knock with his hands full, so he wound up kicking the door and screaming for someone to answer _fucking answer the door!_

"Who the hell is it? It's late, how—" The old woman, a tiny little thing, stood in the doorway, staring at Roy, at the bloodied up and shoddily bandaged boy in his arms for little more than a second before she was ushering him in, shouting for someone named Winry, and guiding Roy down a set of stairs.

"Put him on the table and get out of the way," she said sharply, and Roy was quick to comply.

"I'm here, Granny, what happ—Ed?" A little girl stood at the bottom of the stairs with a box of tools clutched in her arms, eyes wide and mouth open.

"We don't have time, Winry. He's lost too much blood. Right arm, left leg," she said. "Hook up the drain to the leg, I'll take the arm. Route it into the femoral."

Roy watched them work, collapsed on the ground against a far wall. They didn't acknowledge him, and when he fell asleep, the sound of the boy's screams unable to faze him, they didn't bother to wake him.

*

When Roy opened his eyes, the little workroom was flooded with sun, and his back ached something fierce. Rubbing the back of his neck, he sat up and tried to get his bearings.

In the center of the room, the boy was laid out, sleeping, on a collapsible table, several different IVs running into him.

"Ah, good, you're awake."

Roy craned his head back to the stairs leading down, staring blankly at the old woman.

"Well?" she asked, tapping a pipe against her lips. "I don't suppose you'd like to tell me what happened here."

"I don't know for certain," he said cautiously, her sharp eyes suddenly making him feel he was all of ten years old and facing discipline at the hands of his teacher again. He remembered the armor, the desperate pitch of its metallic voice, and stood. "I have to go."

"You'll be back." It wasn't a question, nor was it a request. The old woman looked angry. Roy couldn't blame her.

"I will," he said. "I have to check on—I'll be back," he finished awkwardly.

She gave him a searching look, then snorted, "Get dressed first," and tromped back up the steps.

What was she going on about— _Oh_ , Roy thought, looking down at himself. _Oh, hell._

Maybe, if he was lucky enough, no one noticed him running through town in the middle of the night in nothing but his gloves and underwear.

*

The woman—Pinako Rockbell, she'd said, and Roy _knew_ that name, just couldn't _place_ it—shoved some clothes that smelled like they'd spent a long time stuffed away in a box into his arms and then shoved _him_ out the door.

"Dinner's at seven," she'd said. "Don't be late," she'd said.

Roy changed his mind. Resembool wasn't boring—it was just insane.

The house was still standing, which had to be a miracle. Roy got chills just thinking about the feel of it from the night before, the energy that emanated from the innocuous building. Clenching his fists, he reassured himself with the stiff material of his gloves and knocked on the door.

Of course, there was no response, and Roy immediately felt like an idiot for even bothering, because what was the suit of armor going to do? Answer the door and beg whoever was on the other side to not be terrified?

He pushed open the door (it still wasn't closed because it would have been stupid to stop and close the damn thing with a dying kid in his arms) and shut it behind him. "Hello?"

A faint clanking greeted him. The suit of armor stood at the end of the hall, barely visible. "How is he?"

"He's fine," Roy said, unnerved. "Pinako helped him."

"That's good." The armor shuffled, reminiscent of a scolded little boy, and walked slowly into the open. Roy just barely managed to not step back, facing the thing with false bravado and pretending he wasn't shaking. "We made a mistake," the armor said, pausing at the end of the hall, barely three feet from Roy. "It wasn't supposed to be like this. We had all the calculations. It should have worked!"

How surreal, Roy thought, to be having a conversation with an animated suit of armor straight out of a history text. "What exactly was it that you were doing?" His mouth was dry, and his tongue stuck to the roof of it, words spilling clumsily from his lips.

The armor paused, and if inanimate objects could emote, Roy figured he'd look thoughtful, or contrite, or something. "Mom," it said finally, in that tinny child's voice. "She died. We wanted to bring her back."

Roy's blood went cold and still in his veins. Human transmutation. The armor told him it was a rebound. The pieces started connecting in Roy's mind: two little boys, desperate for their mother and just skilled enough in alchemy to think they could do the impossible.

"It's illegal," he said in a surprisingly even tone. "The price of human transmutation is death."

The armor started. "Please," it said, voice alive with a painful desperation, "please don't hurt my brother! Please don't tell!"

Don't tell? Roy was obligated to, really. He was the government's dog, bound by law and honor to relay any illegal activities in his field straight to them, but… It hurt, just looking at the armor and imagining what it once was, the child inside it. His mind still wouldn't touch on the boy lying on that table at the Rockbell's house, what he'd given up. They were doomed, the armor, the boy, and now Roy, because for all his grand declarations and dreams, there was something inherently wrong about selling out two little boys who just wanted their mother.

Their deaths couldn't be on his hands. Not when so many others already were.

"I won't tell," he said finally. The armor sagged with relief. "But what you've done…" Roy paused. "How old are you?"

"Ten," the armor said. "Brother is eleven." Roy swore he could hear his heart crack, shattered glass slicing up his insides as it dropped into the burning pit of his stomach.

They were so _young._

"I don't know what we'll do," the armor said. "I don't know how to fix this."

Fix it? Roy almost laughed, because he'd never even _heard_ of a soul bonding completed successfully. To undo it would be—impossible, was his instinctual answer, but the boys had already done that.

"Your brother should be coming off of the anesthesia soon," he said instead. "I have to go see him."

"I want to come," the armor said sadly. "But how can I?"

"There aren't any houses between here and there," Roy said slowly. "You could make it." It was risky, but then, what wasn't? Just existing was a risk for the boy.

"You think?" it asked excitedly. Roy nodded, smiling tightly.

"We'll have to be careful," he warned, and then added, because calling the boy 'the armor' seemed too cruel, "What's your name?"

"Alphonse Elric," the armor—no, the boy said.

"Alphonse." Roy nodded. "My name is Roy Mustang," then, after a moment's hesitation, "Lieutenant Colonel Roy Mustang."

Alphonse went still, the metallic sound of the armor fidgeting dying into nothing. "You're with the military," he whispered. "I'm sorry."

"For what?" Roy asked, bewildered.

"This puts you in a very bad position."

Roy watched him for a moment and then shrugged, turning away. "I've been in worse." With the suit of armor clanking behind them, they made their way down the hill.

Yes, he'd definitely been in worse situations—though, without a doubt, never stranger ones.

*

Hawkeye was going to maim him. If Roy was lucky (he wasn't), she might just settle for giving him the silent treatment straight back to Eastern headquarters, but he wouldn't hold his breath.

Soldiers were swarming the hotel, all of them looking haggard, frantic. It had been, what? Two days he'd been gone? Two days without reporting in. Two days after running through the town in the late night hours in nothing but his gloves and underwear.

He was screwed.

"Look! There he is!"

"Clothes on, too!"

Roy scowled at the greeting. "Is that any way to speak to your superior?" he asked the men standing around the front of the inn.

"Lieutenant Hawkeye's waiting to speak to you," one of the men countered.

Touché.

"In her room, I suppose?" Roy acknowledged the man's lazy salute and wandered into the inn, straight down the hall and to the stairwell. Hawkeye's room was on the second floor, would be immaculately clean and look like no one had set foot in it at all.

"Lieutenant Colonel," she said when he stepped in the door. "I've been looking for you." She said it in an accusing tone, like he'd wasted her time and would pay for it. She was an evil taskmaster. Roy had no doubts about how he'd be paying and the thought of the massive stacks of paperwork she'd hand him when they returned to the base made him cringe visibly.

"Lieutenant," he said amicably, "my, how you've kept everything running so smoothly in my absence! I'll be certain to let General Grumman know how capable—"

"Where," she interrupted, tone leaving no room for debates or bullshit, "have you been, sir? It has been _two days._ We received no word from you, and the last sighting was—if I'm to be believing this—that you were spotted at three in the morning, two nights previous, in nothing but your ignition gloves and undergarments, running through the streets like all the devils in Hell were after you. What, may I ask, were you thinking?"

Roy cringed again, raising his hands in defense. "Now, Lieutenant, I have a perfectly reasonable explanation for everything."

Hawkeye did not look amused—or the least bit hopeful. "Is that so, sir?" She pursed her lips, eyebrows drawn tight up to her hairline. "And what, pray tell, would that excuse be?"

There was just something utterly wrong with an inferior officer talking down to him. Had it been anyone but his lieutenant, Roy would be snapping the hell out of them and cackling over the flames. Unfortunately, Riza Hawkeye was something of a babysitter and had been for years before he'd ever stumbled into the military, wet behind the ears and fresh out of an alchemy apprenticeship.

"I can't say."

 _The boy looked up with dead gold eyes, and for a moment, Roy couldn't believe the wraith of a child was alive. "What do you want?" came the flat response, devoid of all emotion._

 _"I've come to make a deal," Roy said, feeling for all the world like he was the Devil the churches condemned so loudly._

"You can't say," Hawkeye echoed.

"I'm sorry," Roy said, tried to inject all the sincerity into the words that he could. He trusted her more than any other subordinate, but this—this was far too delicate. He couldn't yet expose the boys, not without careful planning.

Hughes, Roy thought with no small amount of desperation, was exactly who he needed.

 _"The military?"_

 _"The National Alchemists," Roy corrected. "To have completed not only a successful human transmutation," the boy snorted, the first spark of emotion Roy'd seen, "but to also complete a successful soul bonding, which is a completely experimental branch of alchemy, might I add? And at your age? You're meant to work with the best. And the Nationals," Roy said, lowering his voice to evade Pinako's obvious eavesdropping, "can give you all the resources you'll ever need. They have access to the largest alchemical library in the world. One could find anything there." Roy paused, raised his brows meaningfully. "Even texts on, say, human transmutation."_

 _The boy perked visibly, and the sound of metal hands creaking reverberated through the small room when he turned and grabbed his brother's newly metal body, shaking it. "You think," the boy's mouth moved, his eyes already fogged, clouded with the possibilities, "you think I can find a way to fix Al?"_

 _"And to fix brother's arm and leg?" Alphonse interjected._

 _"You've already done the impossible," Roy said simply. "I aim only to provide you with the means."_

Hawkeye closed her mouth, opened it again. She looked like she might argue, poised for just a moment to really let him have it, but she must have read something on his face, seen the gravity of the situation, because she closed her mouth again and shook her head, pinching the bridge of her nose. "I trust that you'll have an answer for me someday, sir?"

Roy relaxed. "Without a doubt," he promised, "you will be the first to know once I'm able."

"I don't know how you get yourself involved in the things you do," she murmured. "Do be careful, sir."

 _"How long will it take me?" the boy snapped at Pinako. "How long until my body adjusts to the automail?"_

 _"You can't seriously be thinking about it?" Pinako gaped. "Automail surgery makes grown men weep! Some of them aren't even lucky enough to live through it!"_

 _"How long?" the boy repeated, gaze not faltering._

 _Pinako sighed. "Three years."_

 _The boy closed his eyes. "One year."_

 _"Impossible," Pinako scoffed._

 _"I've already done the impossible," the boy echoed, looking back at Roy. "One year," he promised. "One year and I'll be ready."_

 _"Oh?" Roy asked, eyebrows high. "I'll hold you to that, then. Might I have a name from my future subordinate?"_

 _"Edward Elric," the boy said, his gold eyes coming to life. "I'll see you in a year, Mustang."_

"I'll do my best, Lieutenant," Roy said. "Now—have we made contact with headquarters yet?"

Hawkeye dove headfirst into a narrative on Fuery's technological genius, and Roy, feeling the weight of the last two days catching up with him, closed his eyes.

One year, he thought. It wasn't so long—not so long at all.


End file.
